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Poetry: Politics



The hall is dark.
The walls breathe careless echoes
of voices raised in practise and correction.
The floor creaks occasionally,
the afterthought of a pas de deux.
The only anguish in art is
that of the willow: florescent light
makes everyone important and
        In the empty hall,
the walls breathe echoes of voices,
and of gestures attained.  Here,
we have cherished our torment,
and our wonder.  In endless practise,
we have perfected the appearance
of tragedy.
               Young girls
have wept in recognition of
the realised reflection.
Only the walls show no appreciation:
their gaze is even, and inescapable.
Their pity, stillborn, is
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